CHAPTER XIII
A man who in middle age falls passionately in love, after many bitter disappointments, is as liable to do foolish things, in this same matter, as a raw youth of twenty. He is blind once more. Experience has taught him nothing. His hard, cruel insight into the folly and weakness of others is now of no avail. It may be that he is deceived in the woman; or, as in this case, that his worldly wisdom unaccountably fails him just when it should be of most service to protect him from committing an irretrievable error.
It was strange that Ferrars should mistake the difference Miss Ballinger showed in her manner when talking to him and to other men, the keen alacrity with which she listened to, and the fearless manner in which she attacked, many of his views, for growing interest of a deeper kind. He misunderstood her character, if not completely, at all events in part. No woman, he believed, could care so much to convert a man to her way of thinking, who was indifferent as to that man's future. She was not indifferent; this young woman felt an unusual, almost a passionate concern about the lives of those in whom she was interested; and she was sincerely interested in Quintin Ferrars. But it was not the sort of interest he imagined; therein was the initial error of his conduct towards her.
On the way from church that evening, he sounded Mrs. Courtly.
"Have you had much conversation with Miss Ballinger since she arrived?"
"No private conversation. Why?"
"I saw a great deal of her in New York. We met every day. Sometimes I was for hours virtually alone with her. You can guess the result as regards myself. I thought I could never care for a woman again. But I care about this English girl as I never cared before. Has she ever spoken to you about me?"
"Not since we were on board theTeutonic. She asked me then about you, but I told her nothing. I knew you disliked your secret being talked of, and, as it has been so well kept, I resolved to say nothing, unless absolutely forced to do so." Then, after a pause, "She is not a woman to be lightly won, Quintin."
"No; but—unless I am an ass—she takes that sort of interest in me which may deepen into—something stronger. What I want, on all accounts, is time. And that is just the difficulty. They will only be here a few days."
"Yes, they are going west, after passing a day or two in Boston, when their aunt arrives."
"And they will leave America in the spring. And if I follow them west, they will be staying with people I don't know. It is time, you see, I want—time!"
"Do nothing precipitate, at all events. When will you be free?"
"Not for five months yet. Oh, my dear friend! It seems such an age now, before I can throw off those cursed bonds; and I had grown so indifferent to them! My life was blasted, and as long as I loved no other woman, it was all one to me. But now—"
He broke off with so deep a sigh that Mrs. Courtly was startled. All the way home he talked of this English girl, and of nothing else. His friend recognized no longer the man who for years had found so little in life to prize, to admire, or to love.
On their return home they found Saul Barham. Mrs. Courtly had said nothing of his coming for the night; she had kept it as a little surprise for Grace, who would be pleased, she knew, to see him. And she was right. Miss Ballinger greeted the young professor with a warmth which made Quintin Ferrars jealous. He had never liked Barham. More than once on board theTeutonictheir opinions, or something that lay deeper than opinions, had clashed. Ferrars, so trenchant in his judgments, found a man, fifteen years his junior, who treated him more than cavalierly; for hesitation and diffidence were not among Saul's weaknesses. The young Harvard professor felt a certain contempt for this idle, wandering fellow-countryman of his, with his superiornil admiraritone about their common land; and he showed it. The greeting between the two, therefore, was cold, almost to freezing-point, on this occasion; and Ferrars was sore at heart when he saw Grace's fair face beaming with smiles.
"How is your mother, to begin with?" she asked; and when reassured on that point, "Have you felt strong, yourself, since you returned to work? You look a little pale—not quite as well as you did after our six days' voyage."
"Of course not," he replied, smiling. "The Creation took six days. I was re-created during that voyage. I was another man. For the last two months I have been a worm again, grubbing in the earth, but, barring a real little cough, I am pretty well."
She thought him looking thin and worn, but said no more on the subject. She told him she meant to write to Mrs. Barham, and propose herself for an afternoon visit, as soon as she and her brother arrived in Boston.
"She will love to receive you, Miss Ballinger. She so often speaks of you to me. She would not venture to ask you to stay, but if any circumstance should render it possible for you to pass a few days under our roof it would be a real joy to—us all."
"It would be nice if I could manage it. Perhaps, if my brother goes to meet my aunt in New York, I may be able, for a couple of days—but I am afraid you won't be at home?"
"I can run down in the evenings to dine and sleep, and back to my work in Cambridge in the morning. I very often do it. It is no distance by rail. And I generally pass my Sunday at home. You will let me take you over Harvard College, I hope?"
"Certainly. I am looking forward to seeing Cambridge, which is associated in my mind with so many eminent men. You like your life there? You are happy?"
"I like my work; I know it is the best thing my hand can find to do, and I am told I do it successfully. Then I am in touch with men of congenial minds. But happy—?" He paused, and looked out on the twilight deepening into night, with the fixed gaze in those large gray eyes which was so characteristic of him. "Happiness, I believe, depends greatly on physical conditions. I am not quite as strong as I should like to be. We have a splendid gymnasium. If I could take more athletic exercise than I do, I dare say I should have more even spirits."
Mrs. Courtly here joined them, and the littletête-à -têtewas broken up. The lamps were brought in, the shutters closed. In the meantime Mrs. Planter, at the farther end of the room, was questioning Sir Mordaunt as to the new guest, whom Miss Ballinger appeared to know so well.
"Barham? I never heard of the name. It does not belong to any of our first families, anyhow."
"Well known in England," said Mordaunt, carelessly. "'Ingoldsby Legends,' you know."
"Do you mean there is any legendary lore connected with the Barhams? Well, theymayhave come over in theMayflower, but I never heard them mentioned."
"No. I mean the author of 'The Jackdaw of Rheims,' and lots of other things—awfully good fun, you know—was a parson, named Barham."
"Oh! a minister—oh! And what is this young man?"
"A professor, I believe."
"He does not look like a well man. Sovery—"
"Yes, very," echoed Ballinger, impatiently. "But he makes up in brains, I am told, what he wants in flesh and muscle. My sister thinks a great deal of him. He is not my sort of man; rather a prig, I think; but people have different tastes. Nowshecouldn't bear Gunning, whomIthought not half a bad fellow."
"Jem Gunning is not very cultivated, I admit," said Mrs. Planter, authoritatively, as though cultivation and she were inseparable; "but he isveryamiable."
"I don't think Grace cares for amiability alone," laughed her brother.
"Well, but—hehassomething else—one of our greatestpartis!"
"That wouldn't affect her a bit. She is a queer girl."
"Looks to an alliance with your aristocracy, I conclude?"
He laughed again. "That is the last thing she would think of. I believe, Mrs. Planter, you think a great deal more of that in America than we do in England."
"Is that so? Well, I always say to Mr. Planter there's nothing like your aristocracy, Sir Mordaunt. I don't hold much to foreign nobility, but English, when one has once seen them in their home—ah! they are sovery—"
"Right you are, Mrs. Planter. But hasn't foreign nobility a considerable value among you, too? Look at the fuss they made in New York with that young Marquis de Tréfeuille."
"Well, I always told my daughter that he did not amount to much, though his patent of nobility dates from Louis XV. Clare does not care for foreigners, anyway."
"I'm glad you don't count us as foreigners. After all, we have the same blood, haven't we? If we were Scotch, wemightbe relations. It is such rot, that jealousy between the two countries."
Had he been the most astute diplomatist, he could not have made a speech better calculated to please Mrs. Planter. She said to her daughter, as they dressed for dinner, that she had always liked Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, but she found him now really too nice for anything.
The beautiful Clare murmured something which was not very intelligible to her mother. Indeed, her daughter's sentiments on this subject were not clear to her fond parent. The girl had been having a "good time" to-day, in almost uninterrupted flirtation with the English baronet. But Mrs. Planter attached no undue importance to this. She knew her daughter too well. Clare had all the wisdom of her countrywomen in the conduct of such affairs: she would never lose her head; she would never be led, by vanity, or tenderness, or passion, to commit herself, until she was satisfied that this was the man, and none other, she ought, and desired to marry. Herein she showed her superiority to the English girl, who becomes quickly intoxicated, loses all balance of judgment, and plights her troth in a flood of foolish words, which she often bitterly regrets. We are apt to call the American cold and heartless. She is not necessarily so because she seems to be playing with a man, much as a cat does with a mouse. It may be that she is worldly and calculating; it may be that she is diverting herself at her adorer's expense. But there is the other possibility: she may be gauging, in the only way a woman can gauge, the man's character, and the measure of her liking for him. She does not succumb to his personal charm, to his fervent admiration, at once; she wants to know more of him, and, having very keen perceptions, builds up her knowledge from all the chance words he lets fall. It is true that she responds to his advances, that she "encourages" him, as we call it, more than custom approves in England; but she looks upon the game as a fair one, entailing, as she conceives, but small damage to either party. Ever since she was a little girl she has known that man is a predatory animal, seeking whom he may devour. She has no idea of being devoured; least of all when she is a great heiress, fully conscious how many hunters are on her track. No! she will fight them with their own weapons, and when she yields it will not be from ignorance of their vulnerable points.
In this case Grace, who watched her brother's movements with keen interest, could not make up her mind how far either or both players were in earnest. Mordaunt had an unlimited capacity for flirtation; but under that thin surface of chaff and protestation, with which he met the attack of every pretty woman, there were layers of susceptibility, which had more than once been pierced. This careless, impudent young Englishman, with all his faults, had a heart. It had been touched, though happily not very seriously, before now. But if this state of things went on for several days, and if the girl had a stronger head than her brother (which Grace never doubted), and was only amusing herself, how would it be with Mordaunt then? She had not seen enough of Clare Planter to determine whether she wished her for a sister-in-law; but she was quite sure she had no prejudice against her on the score of nationality. If the girl should care for him, and if her character was one likely to make him happy, Grace would further her brother's wishes by every means in her power.
Her reflections did not take this substantive form till Tuesday morning. The Sunday evening had been very pleasant to every one but Ferrars. Burton had played, and Saul Barham had sat beside Grace, and a few words had passed now and again during the intervals of the music. There was a bond of sympathy between them which, for the time being, required no other language. Mordaunt and Clare were not so easily satisfied. At the farther end of the long room, where their whispers could not reach Mrs. Courtly, they lay back on a settee, the shaded lamp-light defining dimly the silhouette of their two heads, and touching more sharply the edges of the girl's pink and silver dress and the tips of patent-leather which terminated the man's long legs, crossed one over the other. That was the picture which often rose before Grace's eyes when she pondered on what her brother's fate would be. The actual dialogue would not have struck an eavesdropper as sentimental. But then there are so many different avenues to the citadel of the affections.
She was fond of referring to England. "Have you ever stayed at Lord Grantham's?"
"No. He never asked me, and I shouldn't have gone if he had."
"Why not?"
"Oh! I don't know. He's not in my set. I shouldn't meet any one I knew there."
"That is very civil to me! We stayed there quite a number of times. Pray, why is he not in 'your set'? Is he not of as good a family as there is in England?"
"Yes. It's a very old title. But rank isn't everything. That is a mistake Americans are so apt to make. Men of rank are not always much thought of in society."
"Well, I don't care whether he is much thought of or not,Ithink he is a very nice fellow."
"If I had known he was such a great friend of yours, I wouldn't have said a word. You asked me."
She laughed. "How funny Englishmen are! I see I must never ask one man his opinion of another, unless he belongs to the same club—if I don't mean him to be sniffed at. Well! I am never influenced by any one's opinion. If I like people, I like them, and if I don't, I don't."
"Capital! You have the courage of your opinions. So few girls have the pluck to do that, to stick to what they think. I wonder if you will always remain like that."
She was playing with her fan, and looked up, to find his eyes fixed upon her. She laughed lightly.
"I have been chaffed pretty badly about being an Anglomaniac since I returned home; but I don't mind. I like England and Englishmen. I don't care so much about Englishwomen. They are kind of condescending, I find, and I suspect they are a little jealous of us—so many of our girls having carried off their young men. In short, I believe our best time with you is over."
"Why do you say that? I thought people were so very civil to you?"
"So they were—many of them—more than civil; but my eyes and ears were wide open. I saw things—I heard things said about me; and I know we were refused invitations to several balls because we were American."
"No, only because society is already much too big for our small houses; and as to jealousy, isn't that a feminine form of appreciation?"
"Do males rise superior to it?"
They both laughed.
On the Monday morning, Barham returned early to Cambridge, and Ferrars had the field once again to himself.
Soon after breakfast a buggy came round, drawn by a famous American trotter, who had won several races, and who, to the uninitiated, was as ugly a specimen of the equine race as could well be seen. His long straight neck, poked forward, his flat back, and his action in walking or ambling, were utterly opposed to the Greek, or even the mediæval, conception of what a horse should be, and how he should move. It appeared, moreover, that this wonderful pace, which was the animal'sspecialité, could not be maintained for more than a mile or so. Therefore, for all practical purposes, it seemed a useless gift, purchased at the sacrifice of grace and beauty; but perhaps Grace was the only one present who thought this. Mordaunt, for whose special delectation the buggy was brought, was invited by Mrs. Courtly to take Miss Planter for a drive. Of course he was delighted; the girl did not hesitate; only Mrs. Planter thought fit to say to Grace,
"We should not do this in England, of course, but here in the country, you know, and especially in the West, where we live, the young people drive out together, all the time."
"If it is the custom, why not?"
"I was afraid you might think it sort of strange. But I assure you Clare has beenverystrictly brought up."
Mordaunt's declaration on his return was that he had never enjoyed a drive so much in his life, and his untiring attendance upon Clare during the remainder of the day first made Grace think seriously of his condition. She lay awake some time that night, and her meditations ended in a resolve to speak to Mrs. Courtly. It was curious that hitherto she had not found an opportunity of being alone with her hostess for half an hour. Yet there was another subject on which she desired to sound her. But Mrs. Courtly seemed to live in a round of small excitement, of constant and varied occupation, the preparation or execution of schemes for the pleasure of herself and others, or for the benefit of others only. When driving, or walking, or sitting over the fire, she expected some of her men friends to talk to her, just as she held it imperative that some of them should be devoted to her women guests. She had no idea of allowing men to talk together, or of encouraging women to gossip with each other, when the opposite sexes met. And when did they not meet in her house?
On Tuesday morning a cablegram from Mrs. Frampton, which had been delayed two days in consequence of misdirection, announced that she was on the eve of embarkation at Liverpool. As the cablegram was dated the previous Saturday, she might be expected in New York the following Friday, and Mordaunt would of course go and meet her. He and Clare would therefore be but two days more under the same roof. Would this precipitate matters?—or would it be the simple termination of a pastime on both sides?
Grace laid her hand on Mrs. Courtly's arm, as they were leaving the dining-room.
"May I come to your boudoir for a few minutes?"
"Why, of course!" and she led the way to that sanctuary of religion and the fine arts, defiled only in one corner by account-books, business letters, and bills of fare.
"I want to ask you a straightforward question," began Grace, plunging boldly into the subject uppermost in her thoughts, without circumlocution. "Is Miss Planter a coquette? Is she trifling with my brother, or do you think she cares the least about him?"
Mrs. Courtly smiled one of her sweet enigmatical smiles.
"My dear Miss Ballinger, is Sir Mordaunt trifling with Clare?"
Grace colored.
"You are quite justified in returning my question. I do not believe he is. If they are thrown much more together, I believe he will be rendered very unhappy should it prove that she cares nothing about him."
"He tells me he must go to New York by the night mail on Thursday."
"Yes, but we are going west after that, and so are the Planters. If I had an inkling of the girl's real character, I might either help him or save him a great deal of pain."
"Clare Planter is a curious girl—in fact, she is an American product, and not like any English girl. It is impossible to tell what she will do. Even her own mother does not know. I knowshewould be quite in your brother's favor, but that would have no weight with Clare, any more than opposition would have. She will probably take a long time to make up her mind as to the man she wishes to marry, but when it is once made up nothing will change her."
"I like that. I could not wish a better answer to my question. So then," she added, laughing, "this desperate flirtation is based, on her part, upon the profoundest principles, and a sense of the importance of knowing a man well before you consent to marry him? Well, I can't disapprove of that—only the man, you see, may suffer in the process."
"Men don't suffer as we do, my dear." She gave a half-suppressed sigh. "At all events, it is never any use interfering in these matters."
"Certainly. If both are bent on this, I would be the last to interfere. But if I thought the girl was leading him on to propose, in order that she may refuse him, I would do all I could, with my aunt's help—she has immense influence with Mordaunt—to save him from a will-o'-the-wisp dance half over America."
"If I understand Clare—which I don't feel certain I do—she will never be the slave of her senses. Flirtation does not affect her inthatway; she will never be precipitated into an engagement. She is capable of strong attachment, but that is a plant of slow growth. She is genuinely attached to her father. If she marries an Englishman, she will never consent to be as much separated from her parents and her country as so many American women are."
"I am glad of that. Though I confess I think Mrs. Planter a bore, I shouldn't wish her daughter to think so. If you are right, the girl has a great deal of character, and though I see her faults—which are partly those of training and association—I believe her good qualities would preponderate with me in the long run."
"I think they would. She has a rare power—rare even for an American—of adapting herself to the country, the people, the circumstances, which surround her. If she were stuck down in a ranch in Texas, without a 'help,' I believe she would make the beds and cook the dinner as well as any one—"
"Splendid!" cried Grace, enthusiastically. "I thought her adaptability might be limited to catching the tone of society. I am glad it has a wider range. I begin to hope now that our parting on Thursday may not be final."
"Butyouare not going on Thursday? You stay on with me, I hope, and meet your brother in Boston, when he brings your aunt there."
"Thank you so much, but I have written to Mrs. Barham, to ask if she likes to receive me for a day or two."
Mrs. Courtly opened her eyes. "I suppose you know it is only a very small rectory? I hope you will be comfortable."
"Oh! I am not afraid of that."
"Well, I shall meet you in Boston. I will go to the Vendôme for a few days—I often do so—in order to present you to some of my friends. You should see something of its society while there. But I am so sorry you won't stay longer with me." Then she added, in a low voice, "Quintin Ferrars will be in despair. He has so few friends."
"Yes," said Grace, slowly. "That is a pity, and I am sure it is his own fault. Will you tell me something of his past life? I am interested in him, otherwise I suppose I should not care what his past had been. He puzzles me. I feel there is something to be explained, he is so very odd. But I have notle mot de l'énigme."
"No one here knows it, but it is quite rightyoushould. I meant to have told you before. He married a Spanish woman many years ago, a widow. She was a beautiful creature, I am told, and she had an ample fortune, but she turned out to be thoroughly bad. He left her after a few months, and has never seen her since. She returned to the name of her first husband, and washed her hands of Quintin. He never took a farthing of her money, which she has spent chiefly, they say, on Prince Lamperti—"
"Prince Lamperti! Do you mean that that woman, Madame Moretto, is Mr. Ferrars's wife?"
"Yes, that was her first husband's name."
"Good heavens! that explains his strange conduct in New York. He must have seen his wife once when he left us suddenly, and another time I remember his going out of the room abruptly when the Princess Lamperti entered it. But he is divorced, I suppose?"
"No, not yet. I will tell you the whole story. Very few people knew of his marriage; he has no near relations. He was married abroad, and during the short time he and his wife were together, he never came to America. When he learned what she was, he was so disgusted and ashamed that, as she chose to return to her first husband's name, he thought it useless to have the scandal of a divorce. He felt sure he should never wish to marry again, himself—he thinks differently now—and so he tried to forget that terrible episode, though it had left him bruised and embittered, to a degree no one who did not know him before can imagine. Lately, the Princess Lamperti, finding it impossible to reclaim her husband, at last decided to divorce him. Whereupon Madame Moretto resolved to come over here, and live in the State of Rhode Island for six months, in order to sue forherdivorce, on the plea of her husband's desertion and want of 'maintenance,' though, as she is a rich woman, and he comparatively a poor man, that is absurd. But Quintin, of course, did not oppose it; and now he is very,veryglad. He would have gone on, a miserable, lonely man, to the end of his life, I suppose, if she had not moved in the matter. I hope now he may find consolation and happiness in the course of time."
"He is certainly much to be pitied," said Grace, a little dryly, as it seemed to Mrs. Courtly; "most of all, I think, because his troubles seem to have destroyed his belief in all goodness."
"No, notallgoodness; only the greater part of what passes as such. I assure you he never doubts yours."
"I had rather he believed in humanity, generally, than in me, whom I suspect he understands very little."
And then Grace turned the subject, and shortly afterwards left the room.